Boondock Saints: War of the Angels
by Forgotten Honor
Summary: The Saints have come to London and are already spreading the Lord's word. But now they've attracted the attention of an ace INTERPOL Inspector, and when push comes to shove, emotions and bullets will fly... Please Review
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Bring in INTERPOL**

"_And shepards we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow forth a river to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be. __In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti._"

And without a second's hesitation, three fingers pulled three triggers, and three bullets ended one evil man's cursed life. Brains and blood spilled to the floor as the bullets exited through both the man's eyes and his nose. As the body fell to the floor, covered already with twelve more bullet riddled bodies, Duke, Connor, and Murphy McManus pulled out their family rosaries and began their final preparations. Within ten minutes, they'd placed their trademark copper coins over the eyes of their latest victims and prayed for their souls. In the distance, Big Ben marked the hour with it's resonating bells.

It was midnight in the foggy streets of London. Having found the United States becoming too hot an item for the McManus', they'd quickly and quietly disappeared thanks to help from Smecker and were bound for England. Finding their next target had been a little tricky early on their arrival, but they found that people with similar thoughts against crime often had their ears to the ground and were more than willing to divulge their secrets, with a little prodding of course. And now, thanks to the Saints infamous handiwork, London was thirteen mobsters lower.

As the Saints got to their feet, Murphy narrowed his eyes at the bodies for the third time that evening. Connor glanced over his shoulder at his twin brother's back.

"Murph?" he said. "What's the matter, bro? One of those fuckers give you a bad look?"

"Thirteen," Murphy replied. "There are _thirteen_ bodies."

"Oh, look at the boy, Da," Connor teased. "He's learning to count."

"I'm serious, guys," Murphy shot at his chuckling father and brother. "Thirteen is not a fuckin' lucky number."

Duke laughed and patted his son's shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay, lad, it's just a number. Besides, think about it, we've been in London for only three nights, and not a single Bobby has come down on us. What'll they do, anyway, call _INTERPOL_?"

Thomas Attenbury, Chief of Scotland Yard Police, scratched at his half shaved face as he tried to come up with a good explaination for the mess he and his lads were investigating at the moment. Literally, he'd only shaved one side of his face before he got the call to come to the Marriot Hotel's penthouse. It reminded him of a scene out of a book he'd read when he was a boy, _King Solomon's Mines_. One of the characters was halfway through shaving while in their campsite in an African jungle when he was interrupted by aborigine warriors.

Odd, he mused. At the time, I found it quite humorous. Now I'm rather flustered.

Just at that moment, a tap on his shoulder forced his attention elsewhere. Behind him stood a young man, maybe in his late twenties, wearing a totally white suit comlete with silver etched waistcoat and crisply polished, black leather shoes with white spats. His white blonde hair looked as though it was sculpted by an artist, not a single hair was out of place. He'd replaced his tie with a simple, silver crusifix fitting snuggly against the neck of his shirt. Were it not for the gore filled crimescene this guy would have looked like he was the current tenent.

"Who are you?" Attenbury asked wondering how the hell he got past the sentries outside without being alerted.

"I'm the man who's going to be handling this investigation, Chief," the stranger replied while folding up his gray overcoat and dropping it in Attenbury's arms. "Hold this, will you?"

Before another word could be said the well dressed stranger casually strolled into the crimescene, pulling on white rubber gloves. One by one he inspected the bodies of the victims, slowly and carefully turning over one or lowering his eyes down to floor level, occasionally. The whole room had gone deathly quiet while this went on, adding to the drama already overflowing in the room. Finally, the man stood up and strolled back to Attenbury.

"Alright," Attenbury sighed. "Now will you tell me who you are?"

"I think you and your men should go back to the station, Chief," the stranger replied, nonchalantly. "Let the pros handle this. This is work of the Saints, a group of vigilantes originated out of South Boston in America. Seems they've made their way over to Europe, now."

"How do you know that?"

"The cause of deaths matches the work from those men. Burn marks on the back of the head of the final victim prove that silencers were used. The casings and bullets recovered by ballistics also identify that they used nine millimeter pistols. And the copper coins over the eyes are usually a big clue, genius."

Attenbury spread his arms in mock praise. "Top notch, sir. Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. NOW WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

As the other man fanned away Chief Attenbury's coffee and donut breath, he reached into his inside pocket and raised an identity card for all to see.

"That's who the fuck I am. Inspector James Bishop, INTERPOL. Now give me my coat, take your lads with you, and go buy some fucking Tic-Tacs..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Smecker Comes to London**

James Bishop was not good at his job. He wasn't great, either. He was a magician. Give him a case that would baffle the world, and he'd solve it in less than a week. Everyone knew he was the best in INTERPOL. Nobody could even come close to rivaling him, least of all outdo him. If you asked who would take over after the current Chief Inspector retired, everyone would point in Bishop's direction.

When he got to work he'd turn into a wolf, an alpha wolf, taking charge and leading the pack. He would concentrate all his energies on his work, shutting out all outside distractions. He became an absolute statue of seriousness. But despite his tough exterior, he had an aura of leadership that would compel his fellow agents to concentrate even harder on their work to keep up with him. And right now, Bishop was doing just that.

All the police and bobbies from Scotland Yard had left rather angrily soon after a team of over twenty INTERPOL agents entered the crimescene. Now, computer screens covered the tables outside the yellow tape. Boxes of files and dozens of flashdrives stood next to them. In just about everyone's hand was a hot cup of coffee as well as notebooks and pencils. And in the center of it all was Bishop, looking at each of the Saint's files. He frowned at the lack of information apart from their numerous vigilante strikes. Bishop turned his head over to the agent standing next to him.

"Danny, is this all we have?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Danny replied. "The most we have on any of them is this _Il Duce_ fellow, and even that's sketchy."

Bishop sighed and snapped the file shut. We need another source of material to study from, he thought to himself as he downed a swig of coffee. Tapping his chin, thoughtfully, he turned back to Danny.

"Didn't the Yanks have their FBI after these blokes?"

"Well, yeah," Danny shrugged. "Right up until they came overseas. That's when we got called."

"What was the name of the agent heading the investigation? It started with an 'S.'"

Danny scratched his head. "Um, Spectre...? Steckler...?"

"_Smecker_!" Bishop exclaimed with a snap of his fingers. "Agent Paul Smecker. Right, he's our new source of study material on these wankers."

Bishop went over to a female agent sitting in front of several laptops that lit up her rectangular glasses like they had screens of their own. In her left ear was a cordless earpiece connected to the phone line so she could call anyone at anytime. She was their "hacker," their living electronic database. And now she had a job to do.

"Janice," Bishop said to her. Janice turned her head to look at Bishop. "Look up an FBI Agent Paul Smecker. Find his number and give him a ring on the blower. When you get in touch with him, let me know and I'll take over."

"Got it, sir," Janice replied in her Scottish accent and imediately got to work.

Her fingers flew across the dozen different keyboards like a master organist. When she needed another computer for something, she'd spin in her swivel-chair and come to rest in front of the correct screen. It took her five minutes flat to get everything on Smecker, download it into a file and send it to Bishop knowing that he'd look at it later, then call the number for the said FBI agent. It took only one ring before someone picked up the reciever.

"Yeah?" a voice grunted over the line, edged with weariness. How did they always manage to call these guys when they were sleeping?

"Mr. Smecker?" Janice asked. "This is Janice Ross, INTERPOL. Your services are required by us in London..."

Three hours later, Smecker sat in the seat of a private jet flying over England. Needless to say, he'd been surprised that INTERPOL had personally called him and had made all the arrangements for him to come ASAP. But what had truly caught him was that this had to do with the Saints. He knew that as long as he was in London he'd have to try and contact them while blind-siding the INTERPOL investigators. He was also worried, not just for himself but for the McManus', too. If INTERPOL was involved, you were sure to know that there was going to be major trouble in the future.

Within another half-hour, Smecker was disembarking from the terminal at the London Airport. A flicker of movement caught his eye and turned to see. A man wearing a very expensive looking white suit and a silver cross around his neck was approaching him.

"Paul Smecker?" the man asked when he reached Smecker.

"Who wants to know?" Smecker replied while cocking an eyebrow.

"Inspector James Bishop," the man replied, flashing his INTERPOL badge as he introduced himself. "I'm the one who requested you be called in..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Note: To all the readers out there who've found interest in this mindless drabble I've been scribbling down, I profusely apologize for having delayed the third installment in this collection of pathetic letters. I will do my best to not do so in the future, so put away the torches, pitchforks, and crosses--yes, I'm referring to the guy dressed as a Roman soldier and balancing a rather large crusifix in one hand and a bunch of large nails and a heavy looking hammer. Shoo! So enough with this, the witch hunt is over and now I present you with the next chapter of "War of the Angels..."**

**Chapter 3: The Hunters and the Hunted**

After an uneventful twenty minute drive, they'd returned to the hotel penthouse, aka the INTERPOL CP. Smecker was caught unawares by how organized the INTERPOL agents were. They made the FBI look like fresh rookies, it would have made him eager to get into the investigation if it wasn't for the fact they were after the Saints. He glanced over at Bishop who was sitting at a table across from Smecker, reading a file. Looking closer, Smecker could make out his name on the cover. From the thickness of it, Smecker surmised that this guy did his homework and did it well.

"So," Bishop stated, making Smecker jump a little. "Fifteen years in FBI, second in your graduating class, commendations for CSI, recommended for therapy twice concerning unusual behavior at a crime scene including firing your weapon in the air and screaming wild profanities."

Bishop raised an eyebrow at that. He looked up at Smecker and smirked, setting the file down as he did.

"Luckily for you, Yank, I don't care if you start dancing a flaminco and singing 'La Cucaracha' in a ballet gown as long as you can do your job," he said. He offered Smecker a seat and as soon as it was taken Bishop continued. "You've been in charge of the Saints case in the States for almost eight years now?"

"That's right," Smecker confirmed. "That's why you called me in."

"You've put it succintly," Bishop replied taking a sip of coffee. "Now before we brief you on everything I'd like to know everything you've learned about the Saints."

"That depends on what you already know," Smecker sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I'm gonna take a good guess and say that anything I'm gonna tell you you've already found out. You already figured out all the basic stuff from your own briefing and have done everything else through basic info scrounging, most of it being on your database. I'm going to take a guess and say that isn't very helpful."

"Do you require an answer?"

"Nah, that stuff was obvious before I got on the plane," Smecker snorted. Then his face got grim. "But let me give you some advice, Bishop, right? If you're going after the Saints, you're going to need to pull all the stoppers out of the bottles on this one."

Bishop smiled and leaned forward. "Let me be clear about something, Smecker. I have never held back for anyone, or anything, and I have no intention of doing that now. If I had thought otherwise, you'd still be back in your bed in the colonies."

"States."

"From your perspective..."

* * * * *

Smecker looked over his shoulder through the glass of the phone-booth again as he dialed the number the Saints had given him when they'd first reached England. They said it was for emergencies, and if this wasn't an emergency... He nervously began biting his lips as the phone began to ring without an answer. When the phone was finally picked up, Smecker let out a sigh of releaf that all but blew away Connor MacManus on the other end of the line.

"Hello?" Connor asked tentatively.

"Connor? That you?" Smecker replied. "It's Smecker."

"Paul!" Connor said with surprise. "Well it's certainly been more than a coon's age, you old fucker! What are you calling for?"

"Well that's the thing. I need to talk to you, all of you, now."

"Well, I'd love to help, boy. But it'd be quite the drive from London to Boston."

"Yeah, I know. I'm in London, too."

"..."

"..."

"You're fucking with me?" Connor asked.

"This is an emergency number, right?" Smecker replied. "Why would I joke about this?"

"Alright," Connor said as he waved over his father and brother. "There's a pub in the north district, it's called the Lazy Man's Bride. Can you be there in twenty minutes?"

"Ten."

"Done."

Both men hung up the phone at the same time, Smecker making his way to the pub, and the other MacManus' learning what was going on from Connor as they headed to the same destination. Later that night, after many beers were consumed, the Saints and the FBI Agent would formulate a temporary strategy to keep INTERPOL from finding any of them. Unfortunately, due to the fact they knew almost nothing about their new nemesis, Inspector Bishop, this didn't get very far. That meant that the hangovers they'd get the next morning would be almost for nothing.

* * * * *

Bishop stood on the porch of the penthouse of the hotel, gazing out on the city of London. It amazed him that he was fulfilling his dream after all this time, chasing down the dirty lowlives who thought they were above the law like Sherlock Holmes. And if it was one thing he liked about Holmes, it was that he never left a case unsolved.

"I hope you're saying your prayers, Saints," Bishop muttered as he lingered his gaze on Big Ben. "Because only God Himself will be able to stop me from running you fuckers to the ground..."


End file.
